


I Believe In You

by NealsNeen



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Concussions, Drowning, Fainting, Friendship, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Hurt/Comfort, Passing Out, Peter is Not Impressed, Pneumonia, Sick Neal Caffrey, Sickfic, Whump, neal needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NealsNeen/pseuds/NealsNeen
Summary: Neal almost drowns during a heist.Peter catches him and is too angry to see or believe that his consultant really isn't feeling too well a day later."Neal always did the right thing by taking the wrong steps. And that constantly jeopardized his well being."This was a request by an anonymous reader (thanks!). :) And it's my first sick-fic. <3It also fills my "Fainting" Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt.
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke, Peter Burke & Clinton Jones, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Comments: 37
Kudos: 139
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	1. Prelude/Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! My first sick-fic. Whoo.  
> The first chapter really is just a quick prelude. :)  
> Hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now on Instagram: whitecollarfiction - follow me :)

Neal had not been on Peter's good side ever since he had pulled a heist with Mozzie in order to catch a thief they had been chasing for a couple of weeks and weren't getting any closer any time soon.

Neal had stolen a small but valuable painting from a gallery. The thief had planned to steal it for several weeks. Neal and Peter knew this. The initial plan was to catch him red-handed, but they did not know, when the caper would go down. So Neal took matters in his own hands. He was far better than their thief. Plus, he had Mozzie. So the painting was in his possession in no time. He wanted to use the item as bait and contacted the thief to arrange a meeting.

They met in a park at a large pond.

Neal wanted to see, who the thief was first, before he would bring Peter into the picture. Little did he know that Peter already knew he was up to something and had followed him.

Unfortunately, the thief was extremely desperate and violent.

He immediately attacked Neal, tackling him on the small pier that led out onto the lake. The impact took Neal by surprise and he hit his head hard on the planks, his thoughts grew hazy, his limbs sprawled out, his body slack.

„Thought you could mock me like this? I planned that heist for so long and you just waltz in like that! Why? You wanna mock me, Caffrey?“ The thief was raging. Fueled by anger, he suddenly picked Neal's slack form up and hoisted him over his shoulder. All Neal could do was groan.

The criminal walked all the way to the end of the pier. „Let's see how you can swim.“

And with that, he slid Neal from his shoulders and let his rag-doll form fall into the lake. He chuckled when Neal did not resurface.

The laugh died in his throat though when someone pulled at this collar hard, yanking him backwards. „FBI. You're under arrest.“ Jones bellowed as he slapped a pair of handcuffs on the criminal, just as a big splash could be heard.

Peter had hastily shrugged out of his suit jacket and disposed of his shoes, diving after Neal.

Jones handed the thief over to some waiting agents and peered onto the lake, waiting for Peter to resurface with Neal.

And he did. The young man did not look well. Peter had him in one arm and using the other to swim towards Jones. Neal's head was bent backwards, lying limply on Peter's shoulder. He was pale, there was blood running down his right temple, his damp curls plastered around his handsome face.

„Is he breathing?“ Jones shouted over to Peter.

„I don't know. Help me get him up.“ Peter tried to hoist Neal out of the water as much as he could. Neal's head was tipping forward, his chin touching his chest. Jones reached down and grabbed him under his arms, pulling with as much strength as he could muster, lying back himself and therefore draping Neal across his chest. Damn, he was heavy. Jones rolled Neal off of him and onto the pier as Peter climbed up the ladder onto the planks. Both men now trying to detect a sign of life.

„He's not breathing!“ Peter said panicked, almost choking on his words.

Jones tipped Neal's head back, the young man's mouth now hanging open a little, whilst the agent started with chest compression first. He pushed once and Neal immediately started to cough up water, expelling of the murky liquid as Peter rolled him onto his side, patting his back. „You're okay. You're okay...“ Peter kept repeating like a mantra. Utterly glad his friend was okay. But also furious that his consultant had deceived him, committed a crime and endangered himself.

Neal stayed in the hospital for all but half a day before he released himself, much against the advice of his doctors.

Peter had visited him once, making sure he was getting better. But stayed away after that. He was still too angry. What was he thinking? Why did his consultant always have to be so reckless?

El wanted to visit Neal in the hospital but heard that he had signed himself out. She told Peter about it, who decided that if Neal could be up to no good, almost drown and decide to release himself from the hospital, he might as well start making up for what he did and come to work with him.

He texted Neal that he would pick him up in the morning. The thief had an accomplice and they had a lead.


	2. Not Feeling Well

Neal woke slowly. His body shivering underneath the covers even though the heat was rolling through him, a nasty contradictory sensation that made him groan. His arms and legs felt like led, aching so much he couldn`t bring himself to move even one inch.

He opened his eyes, which were bleary and unfocused. It took a moment for him to orient himself. He almost drowned yesterday, he was hospitalized but released himself shortly after. Neal can`t seem to form a coherent thought to evaluate whether this had been a good idea or if he ought to seek help. He`s never felt so sick and weak before. What was happening?

And Peter. Peter saved him. But he was furious after he found out that Neal stole a painting to use it as leverage to get close to their suspect. _What was I thinking? Is this who I am? Is this the only way I know to be of help and value?_

He had not wanted to see the disappointment in Peter`s face. Did not want him to see how miserable he was. So he signed himself out. He had felt fine, after all… 

Now, he did not. Not at all. He knew he was running one hell of a fever. But he also knew he had to get up. Had to go to work. Had to function. _God, he was so sorry._ Peter must`ve found a way to divert any possible evidence leaks that would lead to his arrest. Otherwise, he would`ve been in cuffs right now.

Instead, he rolls from his side onto his back, panting in the process. He had a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. _A little hard to breathe._ Giving himself a mental push, he sat up and coughed weakly, his chest hurting even worse now. He pulled the covers around his bare shoulders, head bowed and slowly stood, dizziness hitting him like a brick wall. He swayed and tilted sideways, falling against the nearest wall and started shuffling towards the bathroom. _Just need some pain meds and a hot shower. I`ll be fine._


	3. Mistrust or Concern?

A hot shower and a couple of aspirins later, Neal stood fully dressed in front of his door, ready to leave his apartment. Peter had texted him the address of a warehouse, where their suspects had stashed several paintings, which Neal was supposed to authenticate today. The warehouse was in walking distance, which under different circumstances would have delighted Neal, since strolling the streets of New York always made him forget about his anklet, his restraints and his entire past for a while. So Neal steeled himself to step outside, to cowboy up, to walk, to work.

Except, that he now had to lean forward to rest his forehead against the cool surface of the door. He had tried to dress and style himself as impeccably as usual, but he could already feel the hair at the back of his neck starting to curl with perspiration.

He wondered, whether the pain meds had kicked in at all. His legs were burning, his knees were like jello, there was a weird wheezing noise now every time he inhaled and it _hurt_ to breathe. _Neal Caffrey does not get sick._

He stole a glance at his watch and was shocked to see that he was already running late. Peter would be even more furious. It hurt him to know that his friend and handler lost a good portion of the trust they had built between them and was now looking at him again like a mere criminal. But he had no clue how to make it right again. And now something was seriously wrong, clearly connected to his near drowning. Really not what he needed right now.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs of June's large mansion, he knew that he needed to tell Peter. That he needed help. He felt like he ran a marathon. In the desert. For three days straight. _Damn._

But he wanted to tell Peter in person. So despite the dizzy sensation that seemed to linger ever since he had opened his eyes this morning, he stumbled out the door and made his way down the street. It may have seemed like a beautiful spring day, but Neal felt like winter and summer were having a raging fight inside of him.

\-----

Peter stood outside a small warehouse, more like a storage space, waiting for his CI. Several agents were swarming the place, assessing the goods they had found within.

In a very typical manner, he had stemmed his hands on his hips and wore a grim frown, while he was staring in the direction he expected Neal to be coming from. And sure enough, fifteen minutes after their agreed time, his CI was rounding a corner, walking towards them. _What on earth is he trying to pull now?_ , Peter thought. He expected to see the typical devil-may-care-Caffrey-swagger-walk topped off with an annoyingly stylish fedora and an even more annoying I-did-nothing-wrong-look-at-me-I'm-adorable-thousand-watt-smile.

Instead, Neal's shoulders were hunched, his hands were in his pockets, his head (sans fedora) bowed a little as if he had to concentrate on walking in a straight line, his hair was tousled and slightly wet and curly at his temples. As he came closer, Peter noticed that his eyes were an unbelievably vibrant azure blue, mostly due to the contrast of the red hue around his irises.

_Sick. The kid looks just plain sick and miserable. Would he really do anything to get back on my good side? Malingering like that? He left the hospital on his own accord. If he did that, he must be fine. Must be. Neal Caffrey does not get ill._

Peter's usually kind brown eyes grew a little harder. Sure enough, the one feeling which was always the strongest was not mistrust towards his CI. It was concern. He was constantly worried about this reckless, brilliant, young man. He knew that Neal meant well in his own way. He wanted to help. But the method was time and again just wrong and against the rules, against the system. Peter couldn't have that. As much as he cared about Neal, he could not have his feelings overpower his better judgement. If he would just not look so incredibly young and vulnerable at this very moment. Peter let out a shaky breath as his CI was finally standing before him, looking up at him with large eyes, dark lashes and an honest apology written all over his handsome features.

“Peter. I am so sorry I'm late.” He blurted out.

Peter cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and decideed to ignore the apology.

He swiftly pointed towards the storage room. “Come on, we already put up the art and artefacts. Take a look.”

“Pet'r wait.” Neal's tone was hasty, hushed and slightly... slurred?

The older man turned around, already annoyed by any excuses Neal might come up with.

“Uhm, P'tr – I'm not feeling too great. I thought I was fine yesterday but I think I may be coming down with something. Is th'r any chance I could... call in sick today?” Neal swallowed heavily and Peter could tell that he was trying to stifle a cough.

“If this is how you want to get on my good side after the caper you had pulled, Caffrey, you can forget it. You released yourself from the hospital after nearly drowning, that means you're fine in my book. Let's go!”


	4. The Fall

Neal swallowed and winced at the pain in his chest. He stood there, hunched over and unsure what to do. _Peter didn't believe him._

He had to follow his handler, there was no way around it. The spot where he head hit his head on the planks was throbbing, the dizziness had increased and so had the fever, he thought.

_Pull yourself together. You can do this. And then sleep for a couple of days straight._

He almost tripped when he started staggering after Peter, his breath hitching in his throat. At this point, he not only felt physically miserable but his heart ached even worse now that Peter did not seem to care anymore.

With his whole body hurting like this, he didn't know how long he would last. He never felt this weak before. _What would Peter think of me, if I passed out?_ , he thought since black spots had started dancing in front of his eyes, making the world around him blur in and out of focus. He tried to keep his gaze on Peter's back while they crossed the lot.

The shutter of the storage room had been pulled up and Peter entered it whilst turning around to check if Neal had followed. Neal could not read his expression. Peter's warm brown eyes seemed cold, his brows drawn together in anger. He was eyeing Neal suspiciously.

With his chin almost on his chest, the con stepped past his handler, gave Jones a friendly nod and a half-smile and looked up to see a couple of easels with paintings on them lined up. All of them were spinning violently.

A shiver ran down Neal's way too hot back for the millionth time that day, rattling his bones, pain radiating through his body, whilst he tried not to shake, but tensed his muscles, grinding his teeth behind tightly pressed lips.

He achingly pulled his hands out of his pockets as he passed Jones, who looked at him wide-eyed, like he'd seen a ghost. _Would he believe me, if I said I was sick?_

With his hair falling over his brows in waves and with flushed cheeks, he came to a halt in front of the first painting, swaying a little as he stood. _How am I supposed to authenticate this, if I can't even see straight?_

He inhaled wheezily and tried to blink away the fever induced tears that were additionally blurring his vision.

Turning slightly on his axis, he sought out Peter's gaze, barely able to focus on his friend's wavering form in the distance. When he finally got a hold of the agent's defiant gaze, it made him sharply gulp in air and his chest exploded in pain. Stars were dancing in front of his eyes. He felt like he couldn't breathe and the world started to spin faster. His arms, which where hanging limply by his side were starting to shake and all he could do was part his lips weakly and breathe out one word ever so softly. A silent, desperate plea. “P'tr.”

He felt his eyes rolling back, his knees buckle and his vision going dark. He was falling. And then there was nothing.


	5. Wake Up Call

Trust is a fragile thing. And building a professional relationship based on it is especially difficult, if one had to deal with an irritably charming and exceptionally talented con man. Who also happened to have sneaked into his private life and his heart, Peter mused, as he walked towards the storage room, a miserable looking Neal trailing behind him. He cared for the young man. In truth, he was his best friend.

They matched on so many levels, were always thinking they were the smartest man in the room. The bickering, Neal's kind heart, the way they worked together, how they just _clicked_.

Peter sighed.

But their moral compasses were still calibrated so very differently. Neal always did the right thing by taking the wrong steps. And that _constantly_ jeopardized his well being. Threw him in the line of fire. And it left Peter worried sick on more days then he cared to remember.

Today was one of those days. The past _days_ to be exact. Neal almost drowning, because he had to challenge their suspect. _Damn it!_

Ever since he had caught Neal, he was in a constant state of inner-fuming. His anger bubbling to the surface every time the young man pulled something reckless. And especially today, he could not conceal his feelings. He knew that lying underneath that anger was pure concern and worry for his friend but he could not allow himself to give into it. Not yet.

He threw a dark glance over his shoulder at his CI. And his heart broke. Neal swerved and swayed as he walked behind Peter. His gaze firmly planted somewhere on the back of the agent's suit jacket, as if he was trying to concentrate very hard on not simply falling apart.

Reaching the storage room, Peter stopped on the threshold of the pulled up shutters and nodded for his CI to step inside. Neal walked past him with his head bowed. Peter noticed that the hair on his temples and neck was dark, damp and curling in a dainty, wild pattern.

He felt his eyebrow rising in a moment of self-doubt. Had he treated his friend too harshly or his criminal informant too nicely?

The lines were blurring too often. And mostly, he found himself at a loss as to who he should be for Neal in specific moments and situations.

Does Neal, his friend, need him right now?

Faltering on the inside, he told himself that he would haul Neal's ass to the nearest doctor once he has authenticated the art.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Neal walking past Jones towards the line of paintings, coming to a dangerously wavering stop in front of the one at the rear end of the room. For a second it looked like he would start assessing the art before him, but then Neal turned ever so slowly towards Peter, seeking out his friend's eyes with his own feverishly red-rimmed ones, which went wide before he opened his mouth, forming a single word which Peter merely perceived as a weakly breathed, slurred sound, but understood it nonetheless: „P'tr.“

Neal's eyes rolled back and closed, and Peter could just stare in shock as his friend started falling sideways towards the floor as if in slow motion, hitting a crate near him, before lying completely limp and unmoving on his back, spread eagle, face turned away from Peter.

„NEAL!“ Peter and Jones both yelled at the same time, rushing over to their fallen friend.

Peter knelt down on Neal's left, turning his face towards him by his chin. Both agents inhaled sharply. Peter felt all anger dissipating, only leaving room for the adrenaline rush fueled by concern which now left him shaken and had his fingers trembling.

Neal's face was completely slack. The lower right of his cheek was smeared with dark red blood, which seemed to come from the corner of his mouth, his parted lips letting the red liquid run freely down the side of his jaw. _Damn it, Neal! Must've hit his face on the crate, hurting the inside of his mouth._

„Neal, come on, buddy. Wake up.“ He tapped Neal's not-bloody side of his face while his other hand was wrapped around the back of Neal's neck, holding him steady.

„Please, open your eyes, tell me what's wrong.“ Peter pleaded with his unconscious CI.

Jones laid the back of his hand on Neal's forehead, eliciting a surprised „oh“.

„Peter, that's one hell of a fever he is running. He is pale, his breathing seems a little raspy, he is unresponsive... whatever he came down with, we need to get him to a hospital.“

Peter just nodded and noticed that all the other agents were standing around them in a circle, one of them just pocketing his cell, having just phoned for an ambulance, so he returned his attention back to Neal.

The young man was out cold completely. All Peter could do was sit by his side, study his slack face, looking for any evidence of returning awareness, which never came. Instead, the medics arrived and loaded a rag-doll Neal onto a stretcher, carried him outside and into their waiting vehicle. Peter felt as if he were observing the scene from far, far away, as if in trance, following them into the back of the ambulance, letting them sit him down beside his sick friend.

Slowly, he reached out for Neal's limp hand and took it in his. _How did I let his happen?_


	6. Hospital

Sitting across the gurney whilst riding in the ambulance, Peter ran a hand over his face, feeling utterly helpless.

Neal was lying motionless across from him, an oxygen mask placed over his unguarded, slack face. There was a cannula embedded in the crook of his arm, feeding a clear liquid into his veins. They had removed his suit-jacket, tie and button-down-shirt. Underneath, Neal was wearing a plain grey cotton t-shirt. They had elevated the gurney slightly so that his friend's head was slumped to one side and had placed his hands in half-curled fists on his hip-bones.

It was odd for Peter so see him like this. So young, weak and unconscious. Neal always seemed one step ahead of everyone else, always moving.

“Do you know what's wrong with him?” He sighed.

“Well, we can't say for certain until we've run some tests in the hospital. We're bringing you to the nearest one, but as far as we've heard, emergency rooms are packed all over town. Flu season is not yet over and there were some accidents. It's rather crazy today. So, prepare yourself mentally that it might take a while to assess your partner's condition and it might even be possible he'll be sent home, if it's nothing life threatening. What I can already tell you is that the fever and sounds of his lungs indicate that he came down with something, he over-exhausted himself and passed out. I'm sure he'll be fine Mr. Burke.”

“He was already suffering from a slight concussion. He almost drowned yesterday.”

Peter's bad conscience seemed to disappear into a deep, dark pit and he hung his head a little.

“Almost drowned? Let me note that down. There could be a connection.”

Peter closed his eyes. He needed to call El. If Neal was to be sent home with instructions and medicine, it was clearly on him to take him in and care for him. Even though his conscience told him to, he would have done it anyway. There was a primal urge residing within him to always make sure Neal was okay.

Once they had reached the nearest hospital, Neal was rushed away and Peter had time to update everyone on the current situation, including El.

After over an hour of standing in the waiting room, Peter finally managed to grab a free seat. Just as El walked in. He got up and gave her a kiss and a hug. “Hey hun.” She greeted him with a worried crease on her forehead.

“Hey hun. No update yet, I'm afraid.” He said.

“Well, it's super crowded in here. I saw Neal. They placed him in the hall. Along with other gurneys and beds and waiting patients. Not sure what is going on, but I feel so sorry for him.” She sighed heavily, looking into her husband's kind brown eyes.

“What? Where is he?”

They walked down the hall whose walls were adorned with patients in beds awaiting their treatment. On the left, they spotted an uncomfortable looking cot, reaching up to Peter's midsection. On it, was Neal. Shivering and sweating at the same time. His eyes were slightly open and unfocused, staring up at the ceiling. Every time a shiver wracked his body, he elicited a small, suppressed groan and lightly squeezed his eyes shut for a second before opening them again to mere slits. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, the oxygen mask replaced by a nasal cannula, his lips pressed together in a thin line and the smeared blood dried and still visible beside his mouth.

“Neal! Hey, buddy. Oh my god. Can you look at me, please?” Peter laid a hand on Neal's head and bent over his friend, who didn't seem to register his presence. El threw a hand over her mouth. “He's so pale, Peter. He can't be out here by himself, miserable like that. Where is the doctor?”

“I'm going to look for him. Stay with Neal, please.”

El was trying her best to comfort the young man by speaking to him quietly, stroking his hair, cleaning the blood away with water and tissues. She had laid Peter's and her jacket across his body to give him what little warmth she could. The kid looked so out of it, it broke her heart.

“I can't believe it.” Peter walked back towards her down the hall after what felt like an eternity.

He was pushing an empty wheelchair and had a paper-bag in one hand.

“Did you find a doctor?”

“I did. And I understand that it's an exceptional situation right now and everyone here is doing their best, but they could've at least given him a blanket or made him just a little more comfortable.” He pointed at his shivering, unresponsive friend.

“The doc said they had briefly assessed him and his symptoms clearly indicate pneumonia and a concussion. They gave him a mild sedative and something for the pain. He suggested we'd take him home and call, if his condition should worsen. He gave me some meds, penicillin mostly, and said we should bring his fever down. El, I'm so sorry. Is that okay for you?”

“Of course it is, hun'. Let's take him home.”


	7. I Believe In You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. :)
> 
> And can whump ever be too detailed in it's descriptions?  
> Nooooooo! <3 :D

Peter bent over his friend and laid a hand on his cheek. His flushed skin was radiating an impossible heat.

“Neal, are you with me, buddy? Can you look at me?”

Neal's half-lidded eyes drifted towards Peter's and recognition made them sparkle a little underneath their feverish glaze. “Pe'r."

“Yeah, it`s me. Neal, we're taking you home. Come on.”

“Wha?” Neal coughed weakly.

Carefully, Peter reached behind Neal's back and ever so slowly raised him up into a sitting position, the jackets and his limp hands falling into his lap in the process. “Can you swing your legs off the gurney for me?” Neal tried to comply and slowly dragged his legs off the cot, groaning miserably as he hung is head. “'m cold.”

“I know, I know, we'll be home soon. El, can you go get the car? I'll be fine wheeling him out.”

El nodded gingerly and left.

Peter turned around for a second to position the wheelchair next to him and just as he turned back, Neal's eyes closed and he fell forward, his muscular frame hitting Peter's chest, who instinctively wrapped his arms around the young man. “Woah! Dammit.” He couldn't see his eyes as his face was nestled in the nape of his neck. Way too warm. “Neal. Ugh.” Peter shook his friend a little, then reached for the nasal cannula and gently removed it.

Peter slowly pulled the con man forward so that he was sliding off the gurney, holding him up under his arms now, he turned on his axis to let his heavy charge descend into the wheelchair. Only then did he dare to let go of Neal's torso, inspecting his work with his hands on his hips in a very Burke-ish stance. Neal was somewhat sitting upright and a little more alert but clearly upset and uncomfortable, his large glassy eyes now peering up at Peter. “'m sorry, Pet'r. Jus' wan'ed to help.”

He said it with such desperation he almost sounded angry.

He huffed out a sigh, which resulted in a small hiccup and he pressed his lips together to keep the pain at bay, tilting his head to the side a little, letting his dark waves fall over his forehead and looked back up at Peter, his eyes even larger than usual, vibrant blue orbs above pinkish, flushed cheeks. How could Peter be angry? He and El did not have any children yet and he couldn't deny his paternal, or big-brotherly feelings for the man. He looked so young, forlorn and just outright adorable that Peter had almost forgotten about the stolen painting resulting in Neal's brush with death at the lake.

Peter let out a heavy sigh and laid a hand on Neal's head. “Let's talk about this, when you're feeling better, okay?”

“N-no. Please. Pet'r. Are we still friends? Will you send me back to prison? Do you hate me?” The young man's voice was husk and almost broke.

“What? Neal, I don't hate you!” Peter blurted out, utterly surprised.

He sighed and squatted down in front of Neal's chair, the young man looking at him with so much hope and expectancy.

“In hopes that you'll remember this when you're better, because you are on drugs right now, let me tell you this: I don't hate you and I never will. I agreed to your deal and to take you under my wings because I like you, kid. I think you are the best damn con-man I have ever known, or chased for that matter, but underneath that, you are kind and caring, you are a _good_ man. I will get you out of this one, because I believe you can do better. That you _are_ better. I believe in you, Neal. And yes, I was mad you stole that painting, even though you did it to help me solve this case. But I am furious that you ignored the danger. How could you have been so reckless? Do you know how often I worry about you? You almost drowned, dammit! For a split second, I thought I lost you. I can't have that. El can't. Neither can Mozzie, Jones or Diana. Or June. You are family, Neal. And you are my best friend. You make me and my life so much better. There. Now let's go.”

He gingerly got up and stepped behind the wheelchair, seeing Neal's expression just for a second out of the corner of his eyes. The young man's mouth hung open, totally surprised and in awe. Well, while getting through this illness and during recovery, he would have enough time to digest the notion that he actually was... loved, Peter mused.


	8. Peter's Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather gruesome, I'm afraid. Be warned.  
> I think it's lovely, though :D <3

He was kneeling on a wooden floor, bending over Neal, who was sprawled out, totally limp, his arms stretched out a little to the sides and his eyes large and scared, his mouth slightly open and to Peter's horror, a never ending stream of clear water running down the sides of his neck, expelling itself from Neal's lungs. But it didn't stop. Neal just lay there looking at him, desperation and sadness visible in his azure blue eyes. He was suffocating. He was dying! “No, Neal!” Peter's hands where on his friend's shoulders to steady him. He didn't know what to do. Why didn't the water stop? It was now filling the whole space, covering the floor, reaching up to Peter's knees. Where there should have been walls to either side, there was only blackness, an infinite stretch of darkness that surrounded them.

His heart clenched and panic settled in a deep hum inside his chest, it gripped him with such brutality, it stole his breath and made his limbs tingle. “No, no, no. God, Neal, I'm so sorry, please, please don't die on me.” He could feel hot tears running down his face. He has never been an overly emotional person, but the desperation and sadness he now felt was unlike anything that had ever torn through his emotional construct in which he kept everything in place and in check. He never had a brother, a son, a best pal, a platonic soulmate. Neal was all that to him. And he could see the life draining out of him in clear liquid rivulets. The water was rising around them and he shook the young man's shoulder now, hard. Neal's head lolling from side to side a little, jostling his dark curls that were falling over his forehead, the small locks at the nape of his neck already wet. “Neal, please hold on. I'm so sorry. You can always trust me! I'll be there for you, I promise. I'll never let you down again.” Peter exclaimed, biting back a sob.

At that, the water stopped.

Neal expelled the last drops with a weak cough, blinking once, then he turned his eyes towards the ceiling, absently. “Neal?”

The con's mouth closed, though his lips where still apart, revealing his teeth... and deep, dark red was welling up in the corner of his mouth, slowly rising – Peter gasped and gripped Neal's arm with bonds hands – and spilled over one side, a single red rivulet slowly running down his cheek and disappearing into the hairline along his neck. “Oh my god!” Peter followed the drop with his eyes until it ran along Neal's neck, his gaze drifting towards the floor – realizing that now, he was sitting in a pool of blood. Everything around him emanating an eerie red glow and Peter felt a deep dread of doom looming over him and his fallen friend.

Peter clenched his teeth, a deep ache settling in his heart and he laid one hand on Neal's head, stroking his forehead with his thumb.

Neal closed his eyes. Giving into unconsciousness. Into the darkness that was now closing in, rushing towards them. It was too late. “NO!” Peter screamed...

… and sat up with a loud gasp and a whimper, his hand flying towards his chest, where he could still feel the emotional pain of a loss so great it was unbearable.

“Hun? What's wrong?” El, sat up in bed beside him, running a small hand up and down his back.

“I had the worst nightmare.” Peter was still trying to catch his breath. “I need to check on Neal.”

“Okay. I'm sure he is fine, hun. He looked comfortable downstairs. Go ahead, I'll go get some water from the kitchen.” She kissed his cheek and got up. Peter nodded and swung his legs off the side of the bed.


	9. Fever

Peter padded down the stairs to the living room quietly. El was right behind him and rounded the corner, disappearing into the kitchen, while he approached the still figure on their couch. The coffee table was littered with medicine and pills. Once they had placed Neal in the living room and had made him as comfortable as possible, they had given him antibiotics and pain-killers like the doctor had ordered. Neal had fallen into an exhausted sleep shortly after and had not woken once until the Burkes went to bed themselves.

Peter turned on the lights and elicited a breathed “oh” as he saw the way Neal was sprawled out on the couch. The young man's cheeks were flushed, his hair curled everywhere around his head and he was so incredibly still, it scared Peter. The blanket lay in a heap beside the couch and Satchmo had made himself comfortable on top of it, his head lying mere inches underneath Neal's limp hand as his right arm was dangling halfway off the couch. Neal was only wearing a pair of black boxer briefs, his lean figure appearing slightly more gaunt and his pale skin making the freckles on his shoulders stand out in contrast.

“Neal?”, Peter approached the couch and knelt beside it, laying a hand on his friend's forehead. “Oh . Not good. Neal, can you open your eyes, buddy? You're burning up. We need to bring your fever down.” There was no response. The only sign of life was the shallow rise and fall if his chest and the raspy breath that quietly escaped his parted lips.

“Neal! Come on!” Peter raised his voice to no avail. When he laid a hand on Neal's cheek and turned his slack face toward him a little, the momentum made the young man's head loll all the way towards him listlessly. But it didn't wake the young man.

“Damn it. EL!”

His wife entered the living room with a panicked look on her face and a water-jug in her hands.

“What? Something wrong?” She saw Neal and put the jug aside to rush towards the couch.

“El, he's unconscious. I can't wake him. His fever is really high I think.”

“Peter, should we get him back to the hospital?” She had one hand on Neal's head, gently stroking his wavy hair.

“I don't know, hun. You saw the situation there. Let's try to bring his fever down here first. Can you go upstairs and run a bath? If we fill in cold water bit by bit and it mixes with the warm water, it might help him regulate his body temperature.”

“How will you get him upstairs?”

“I have no idea.” Peter shot a glance at Neal's slack form. He knew from experience that Neal was heavier than he looked. Especially in his passed-out state.

He sighed and weighed his options, when Neal coughed weakly. “Neal?” Peter shot up and sat on the edge of the couch, shoving one hand behind Neal's way too hot neck. His friend's eyes were closed but his lips moved every so slightly to whisper: “P'tr.”

“Yeah, I'm here. Look, you're not well, buddy. I need to carry you upstairs. Can you wrap your arms around my neck and try to hold on?”

Wanting to seize the moment, Peter didn't wait for a reply but stepped around the sofa to have Neal's upper body on his right and carry his legs with his left arm. He reached down and shoved both arms underneath his friend's limp body. “Come on, Neal.”

“...k.” Neal groaned a little and raised his arms weakly towards Peter's neck and while his torso was being propped up, he let his head flop onto the agent's shoulder before Peter took a deep breath and lifted him up into his arms.

Peter's face was set in a grim expression. Going was slow but he took one agonizing step up the stairs at a time, grateful that Neal was awake and aware enough to hold on.

This was, however, short-lived as Neal passed out again once they had reached the upper floor's hall. With a small groan, all tension left his body and he instantly slid a few inches from Peter's arms, practically sagging towards the floor from one moment to the next as if his strings had been cut, his arms falling away from Peter's neck, his upper body and head tilting backwards so that Peter was only able to see the underside of Neal's chin, the rest of his face disappearing over the crook of his arm.

“Damn!!”

After what seemed like forever, he finally reached the open bathroom door and stepped inside. El was kneeling next to the bathtub, checking the water's temperature. She gasped at the sight of her husband with his unconscious CI draped across his arms. “My god, Peter!”

“I know, I know. Help me lower him into the tub.”

Between them, they managed to submerge Neal into the water, whose head was falling to the side, his hair flopping over his forehead, looking way younger than he actually was.

Bit by bit, they exchanged the warm water with colder streams and after a while, Neal began to cough and stir, blinking his eyes open. They were red-rimmed and unfocused and way bluer than usual.

Slowly, their patient turned his head towards them and to their surprise, he smiled a little, clearly happy to see them. “Thank you.” He slurred, his eyes falling shut again and his breath evened out.

  
“Thank god. He's asleep. El, can you check his temperature again? I think he's turning a corner. Let's put him up in the guestroom up here then.”

He sighed... and remembered the nightmare he had earlier. The feeling of a bad conscience and the ever present concern for Neal's well being were still lingering like a tight knot in his chest. But he knew, Neal would be alright. And that he needed to apologize to him again, once he was more lucid.

“I believe in you, Neal.” He whispered, as his friend slept on.


End file.
